Peter J. Shippy : poet

Awaiting My Translation into Paradise

So one night Dino and I were talkee-Talkee in Du Mars, the coffee shopAt Laurel Canyon and Ventura."Guess where Miss Sofia CoppolaShoots-the-chute when she's in Paris?"The adobe ceiling was terra cottaAnd striated like the Burgundy Room'sBeef tartare. Dean, who happened to beA card-carrying character actorEmbossed his left eyebrow and hissed:"There isn't a knife in sight." I held my fistsBetween the neon chandelierAnd the elephant's breath wallpaperMaking hand shadows, formingThe Mandarin character for: I shit you not.At the counter, two surgeonsFrom St. Jude's spread cinnamon goo,Crossing their steaming BangkokBuns. This was when the eveningGrew a beard, when Los Angeles spokeOnly on commission of anonymity,When this dude walked in wearingBlack Levi's, quartz-capped Doc Martens,A white cowboy hat and a Nudie suitBoasting rhinestone marijuana leavesAnd Benzedrine capsules stippled on roseOf Sharon with the legend "Sin City"Stitched into the lapels. Dino lookedGreen looked lit by borrowed light.I drew my blue thumbnail over his upperSmooch and flicked away a tealeaf.The hipster fed a dollar to the jukeboxAnd punched G-7, Serge Gainsbourg's,"Folie ˆ Deux." He parkedAt the counter and ordered a salmon ReubenTo go-go. "My juices register a "1"On the pH scale — chaste acid," he said.Without looking up, one medReplied, "Seething bile is a necessityFor a critter that subsists on moon-Bleached bones." This whet my hearing aid.The other cutter passed the lone wolfA Tiffany's box. He paid his billAnd made to walk out the door untilHe caught Dean's gawk and boothed with us.He opened the little blue, fished outA syringe and infused the thundercloudsUnder his eyes. "Fetal foreskin cells.They come with pristine provenance.One, two, three beats for me to measureYour countenance. You pass. I've beenAweather. Out in the desert nearJoshua Tree digging for muktukAnd potatoes — if you get my drift —When I was set upon by an apsaras.A visitant? A swan maiden? FemmeMescal? An insinuation? A voice-Over artist? She carried a bow madeOf yucca strung with a line of killerBees. She struck a match, lit her titsAnd chanted thirteen times, 'Let's burn,Motherfucker.' So poof — I disappearAnd find myself here as a wham-bam-Thank-you-man-with-a-plan: I must cookMy looks and make myself worthyOf alliteration of translationInto paradise. Believe me, gentlemen,I'm not the stooge who goes out for a packOf smoke and never comes back."We exchanged cards. Later, walking southOn Zuma Beach towards Drainpipes,Watching bikini-stripping swells, Dean begged:"So where does Miss Sofia CoppolaShoot-the-chute when she's in Paris?"I cuffed my chinos and ran into the sea.